


For Any Hope or Promise

by jacyevans



Series: Silence [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Feral Sam Winchester, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mute Sam Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Recovered Memories, Sam and Dean Get a Dog, Soft Dean Winchester, Surprisingly Domestic, Trauma From Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), but only with Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: Sam wakes up with his soul restored, nothing more than a silent shell of himself who depends on and responds solely to his brother. Dean does his best to bring Sam back around, but poking at Sam's memories - even the good ones - has devastating consequences.
Series: Silence [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034286
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59





	For Any Hope or Promise

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on moving some of my favorite fics from LJ over to AO3. This was originally written for the 2011 Summer Sam Love Ficathon, for the prompt _Mid-Season 6 AU: Sam wakes up after his soul returns and it’s not only the memories of hell that have been sealed away, he has no memories of anything else at all around him (whether he's just an amnesiac or all feral or whatever else is writer choice) and Dean has to help him. Unfortunately, Dean's attempts to bring back his Sam are cracking the wall._ The fic has been edited and slightly modified from the original to reflect my current writing style.
> 
> There are 3 fics in this series.
> 
> Title and excerpt from "The Torn-Up Road" by Richard Siken.

_and words, little words  
words too small for any hope or promise, not really soothing  
but soothing nonetheless_

* * *

Ten days after Death restores his soul, Sam still shows no signs of waking. Dean checks for the rise and fall of his brother’s chest and the steady thrum of his pulse in his wrist, the only signs of life. Bobby’s attempts at optimism are futile at best, but Dean has to believe Sam will get through this. He clings to what little hope he has left like a life raft, the only thing holding him afloat.

Still, Dean isn’t prepared for the sound of his brother screaming. 

The initial jolt of shock knocks him out of his chair. He catches his feet under him and flies down the stairs, Bobby close on his heels.

Sam is sitting bolt upright, scratching at the needle in his hand until the IV tears away. He hasn’t stopped screaming, and the sound scrapes down Dean’s spine, settling like a heavy slab of stone against his chest. He grasps one of Sam’s wrists, holding it down as best he can with his brother fighting tooth and nail to pull away.

“Sam!” Dean tries to hold his brother's attention while Bobby reaches over, grabbing at Sam’s other wrist.

Sam’s eyes settle on Dean. The screaming stops. 

The sudden silence sends Dean’s pulse racing at gallop, prickles of fear reaching into his chest and grabbing hold.

Sam stares and stares, but his eyes are empty.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers. Sam’s wrist is limp in his hand. He doesn’t move.

* * *

Sam doesn’t do anything but stare and sleep for the next two days. Bobby carefully bandages his hand and sets up the IV again while Dean stands watch, terrified of another screaming fit.

Sam doesn’t respond at all - doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He doesn’t scream either.

Dean doesn’t pray - hell no, he doesn’t pray - but when Castiel doesn’t answer his phone after several hundred attempts, Dean closes his eyes and says, “Cas, I’m kind of desperate here. I need your help. Please.”

When he opens his eyes, Castiel is standing on the other side of the kitchen. Bobby swears as he appears, spilling hot coffee all over his hand.

“Took you long enough,” Bobby mutters, glaring in the angel’s direction as he wipes off his hands with a dishtowel.

Castiel barely twitches. “I was otherwise occupied,” he says, casual and easy in a way that makes Dean's teeth clench.

He barely resists the urge to ask what the hell could be more important than his brother lying comatose in the other room. “I need your help with Sam.”

Castiel cocks his head to the side, looking for all the world like a giant bird. If Dean wasn’t busy being so worried about his brother he could barely breathe, the mental image would make him laugh. “Sam?”

“Death returned his soul. I need you to tell me what’s wrong with it.”

The look Castiel levels him with is the one that calls him a foolish mud-monkey; he became accustomed to seeing the expression the first few months after finding out he was raised from Hell's depths by angels. Dean hasn’t missed seeing it since. 

“Your brother’s soul has been in hell for over two centuries, Dean. I do not need to examine him to know that it is wounded.”

Dean returns Castiel’s silent stare with narrowed eyes, arms folded over his chest. “Yeah, well, humor me.” 

Castiel turns around so swiftly, Dean flinches, not expecting the movement. He scrambles to his feet and follows Castiel down the stairs, through the open door of the panic room. 

The angel sits down on the edge of the cot, gripping Sam’s shoulder. Dean holds his breath, waiting for the screaming to start, but Castiel does not reach into Sam’s chest; he places his hand directly over Sam's heart and stares into his eyes. Sam turns his head, looking back with those empty eyes; Dean wonders what, if anything, he sees.

The next few minutes feel like an eternity. Then, Castiel stands, leaving Sam’s side.

“Your brother’s soul is in place,” Castiel says as he crosses the room. 

Fear settles into the pit of Dean’s stomach instead of the expected relief. He shoves the emotion down. “But...”

Castiel tilts his head to the side, pretending not to understand the question.

Dean purses his lips. “You want to quit the cryptic talk, Cas, and tell me the truth?”

Castiel glares, and Dean is relieved to see some form of emotion from the angel, even if it's only anger. “I do not know what you want me to say, Dean,” he says, every word gruff and clipped. “The wall between your brother and his memories still stands, but his soul is in tatters. It felt like it has been skinned alive.” He takes another step towards Dean, and if Dean were in a better mood, he would remind the angel of the concept of personal space. “If you wanted to kill your brother, you should have done it outright.”

Dean can’t decide if he wants to throttle him or break down in tears. Castiel disappears before he has the chance to decide.

“What now?” Bobby’s question echoes ominously. Dean scrubs a hand over his face and turns to face the wall.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly, and the admission burns.

* * *

When Dean wakes up the next morning, he has a plan.

“It’s not a good plan,” he admits grudgingly, accepting the cup of coffee Bobby offers, “but it’s the only one I’ve got.”

“I’ll give you that,” Bobby says, snorting when Dean glares.

Dean grabs another cup of coffee and a plate of eggs and toast; he tucks a clean set of Sam’s clothes under his arm and takes a deep breath before heading downstairs.

“Rise and shine, Sammy,” he calls with false enthusiasm, pushing the door to the panic room open.

To his surprise, Sam is sitting up, back flush against the wall. He stares down at his hands, twisting the material of his shirt between his fingers. He glances up when Dean enters, looks and looks but doesn’t seem to see.

Dean sits on the edge of the cot, pushing the plate towards Sam.

“Breakfast of champions right here.” He pats Sam’s leg, leaving his hand on his knee. Sam stares at his hand but doesn’t so much as glance at the food. 

Dean sighs. “Come on, Sam, you gotta eat. Don’t make me feed you myself,” he warns, an empty threat as that is exactly what he was expecting to have to do. When Sam doesn’t move, he nudges the fork into Sam’s hands.

Sam stares; then, he brings a forkful of food up to his mouth. Dean smiles a little, fingers squeezing Sam's knee. It’s a start.

* * *

For the next week, Sam walks around in a fog, eating and drinking only when Dean places food in front of him, changing clothes as long as Dean sets them out. Dean always adds an extra layer and leaves a blanket close by. Sam's always shivering, skin pale and cool to the touch.

He’s also unbearably, uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t make a sound; even his footsteps are silent as he creeps around the house when Dean moves him out of the panic room and into the spare bedroom. Bobby yelps when he walks into the bathroom and finds Sam staring in the mirror at himself.

“Get that boy a bell,” he mutters when Dean comes running. Sam cringes back against the sink, but Dean coaxes him out, down the hall, and into bed. He stares at Dean until his eyes close, pulling him into a restless sleep. 

Dean sits on the opposite bed and watches his brother sleep until his eyes grow too heavy to stay open any longer.

He wakes in the middle of the night, heart racing from a nightmare his brain won’t allow him to remember. He turns, instantly seeking out the reassurance of Sam’s form in the dark. He sits up when he finds his brother’s bed empty.

He finds Sam standing in the front of the house, staring out at the junkyard, one of Bobby’s old blankets wrapped around his shoulders.

“Nice night, huh?”

Sam, as expected, does not respond. 

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, staring out at the sky. “You used to do this when we were kids. You would disappear in the middle of the night, and I always found you standing outside of whatever shitty motel room we were camped out in that month. When I asked you what you were doing, you said, Just looking, Dean.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Scared the shit out of Dad once. Thought he was gonna kill me when he came home and you weren’t there. We tore the room apart and found you under Dad’s bed, curled up with your blanket and both of his pillows.”

Sam’s back tenses, shoulders rising like an agitated cat. The wind ruffles his hair, and he inhales sharply.

“Come on, Sasquatch,” Dean whispers, placing his hand on Sam’s arm.

Sam makes a rough, whimpering sound at the back of his throat like a wounded animal. He grasps Dean’s arm, then wheels back, knocking Dean in the face.

Even in his current state, Sam is no delicate flower. Dean reels backward, clutching at his jaw.

“Ow, fuck,” he hisses; Sam keeps making that sound, louder now from where he crouches down beside one of the broken-down cars with his arms over his head.

Dean kneels down in front of him, unable to do anything while his brother suffers and hating every helpless, devastating moment. “Sam,” he whispers, reaching out a hand then dropping it to his knee, fingers clenching. “Sammy.”

The sound tapers off and Sam drops his arms, staring vacantly at the spot between Dean’s eyes.

“Aw, Sam,” he sighs. Sam doesn’t even twitch.

Dean holds out his hands, brushing Sam’s shoulders to support him as he stands. Sam flinches away, but he doesn’t sink back to the ground. He follows Dean into the house.

Small favors.

* * *

Bobby regards the spectacular bruise on Dean’s jaw the next morning with a raised eyebrow and his typical snark. “Got some shiner,” he says, voice laden with suspicion.

“Walked into a door,” Dean cracks with his mouth full, and Bobby scowls, removing his hat to smack him on the back of the head.

“Jesus, Bobby!” he yelps, almost knocking his plate off of the counter.

Bobby sighs, shoving his hat back onto his head. “Dean, I know you don’t want to hear it - hell, God knows I don’t want to be the one to say it - but maybe Sam is beyond your help.”

Dean stiffens, fingers clenching along the edge of the counter. 

“Maybe you need to consider sending him... somewhere he can be taken care of.”

He whirls around, barely letting Bobby finish the sentence. “And tell them what? Sorry my brother’s a basket case, he just got his soul back after a two hundred year sabbatical in hell. He’ll be fine as long as you don’t touch him or talk to him or interact with him in any way.”

“Damn it, Dean—”

Bobby stops abruptly when Sam walks into the room. He blinks at Dean, barely affords Bobby a glance, then turns and walks back out.

Bobby shakes his head, but Dean catches the pinched expression on his face that says he’s freaked, one he covers up by lowering the brim of his hat over his eyes. “I’m just sayin’ you should consider it. That’s all.”

Dean often wonders if maybe something went wrong when Death gave Sam back his soul, more than Castiel was willing to admit - that his brother is more the Sam that was yanked out of the Pit and lived topside for over a year than the one who dove into the Cage with Lucifer wearing his skin.

He doesn’t relish the thought, but if _he’s_ thinking it...

“Bobby, you know he isn’t dangerous,” Dean says slowly.

“I know he ain't!” Bobby slams his hand down on the table hard enough that the pile of books at the edge rattles and falls. “That still don’t make the memory of him trying to gut me disappear.”

“It wasn’t him,” Dean says, the protest rote and automatic at this point.

Bobby purses his lips. “Maybe not all Sam, but it was him, Dean. What are you gonna do when he starts remembering the things he did without a soul?” He leans forward, hand braced on the table for balance. "What are you gonna do when he starts remembering the Cage?"

A chill sweeps down Dean's spine, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “The wall’s intact. Cas said—”

“Yeah, I know what he said. That doesn’t mean it’s gonna hold up forever.”

Dean doesn’t satisfy him with an answer; he can’t say he hasn’t considered the same thing.

* * *

Dean spends every spare moment over the next week he isn’t taking care of Sam looking for a place to live, tracking online ads and circling offers in the local newspapers. Bobby would never kick them out, but after the confrontation in his kitchen, Dean senses they’ve overstayed their welcome.

He finds a few places in the area, close enough to Bobby to get back quickly in an emergency, but far enough away that he won’t feel they’re breathing down his neck. However, all of them are located in well-populated developments or too close to the main roads - roads full of people.

Sam doesn’t do too well with people at the moment, especially people that aren’t Dean.

“This is hopeless,” he mutters, slamming the laptop shut and rubbing his hands over his eyes. Something clatters to the table just outside of his field of vision, and he looks up.

“Bit of a fixer-upper,” Bobby says from over his shoulder while Dean picks up and closely examines the object, a worn, slightly rusted silver key. “But it’s fully furnished.”

“Where?”

To his surprise, Bobby’s lips twitch upwards. “Middle of nowhere.”

Dean arches an eyebrow. “Wanna limit that down for me?”

Bobby drops a map in front of him, pointing to a circled spot off to the side of the page.

“Nowhere,” he says, giving in to the urge to grin.

“Hilarious,” Dean deadpans. Bobby chuckles, walking off, looking distinctly pleased with himself.

“Hey,” Dean calls, making him turn around. “Thanks. Really.”

Bobby coughs and ducks his head, hiding his face under the brim of his hat. He grunts and turns his back, grumbling something about sentimental idjits that makes Dean smile.

* * *

Nowhere, Nebraska has a population of just over two hundred people. The house Bobby found for them is five miles off of the main road, another five miles away from the local campsite, and far enough from civilization that Dean won’t spend every waking and sleeping moment worrying about strangers setting off Sam.

It’s also six hours away from Sioux Falls.

Dean isn’t sure how his brother will deal with the long car ride, but Sam sits back as soon as Dean gets the Impala running, staring out the window as they ease out onto the highway. Dean keeps the music quiet, barely audible over the rumble of his baby’s wheels against the road. The longer they drive, the calmer Sam seems, relaxing into the seat with his head back. He looks more alive than Dean has seen him in weeks.

Two hours into the drive, Sam rolls the window down, sticking his head halfway out so the breeze ruffles his hair.

“Always knew you were a giant mutt at heart,” Dean cracks without heat. Sam looks at him, blinks slowly like a cat, then turns back to the window.

Dean chuckles and turns Zeppelin up a little louder.

The house Dean pulls up to is about half a mile off of a dirt road. The railing is rusted and falling apart and the stairs are cracked, but as soon as Dean walks through the door, the place feels like home.

There's a small, yellow kitchen at the back of the house, separated from the living room by counter-topped cabinets. A couch in a reddish color that makes Dean’s eyes water sits in front of a tiny fireplace and a television set probably older than him and Sam combined. A set of stairs just off of the entrance leads up to two bedrooms, one across the hall from the other, and a small bathroom.

The kitchen is fully stocked with at least a week’s worth of food, and Dean makes a mental note to call Bobby and thank him and to possibly sound like less of a girl this time.

“What do you think?” Dean shouts out into the living room with a grin. “Pretty sweet.”

Sam glances at Dean over his shoulder then goes back to staring out the window from his spot on the couch.

Dean’s smile fades. He sighs, hoping this wasn’t a mistake.

* * *

Shockingly, Sam adjusts to the change of scenery faster than Dean. Within a week, more color appears in his cheeks, and a hint of awareness returns to his eyes. Dean wakes one morning, hopping down the stairs and cursing the freezing, bare floorboards. He stops dead in the doorway.

Sam is already dressed and eating a bowl of cereal at the kitchen counter. An extra, steaming mug of coffee is at his elbow. Dean takes the cup without comment on this sudden turn of events, making a face at the taste.

“Easy on the sugar there, princess,” he says, grinning when Sam huffs into his bowl.

Sam spends most of his days exploring, walking around the house and lifting objects, staring at some for a long time while immediately placing others back down. Dean doesn’t know what goes on in that freakish brain of his brother’s - a fact that still bothers him more than he can explain because he’s always known what goes on in his brother’s head, sometimes better than Sam. He spends the rest of his time staring out the window at the front of the house; he never makes a move to leave, though.

Dean should have known the upswing wouldn’t last.

* * *

When Sam finally crashes, he crashes fast, totally and completely.

Dean startles awake, swearing when he hears Sam scream. He’s halfway out of bed when the door creaks open and the mattress dips as Sam crawls under the covers, curling close.

“Aw, hell no, Sammy, you’re like a fuckin’ furnace.” Never mind that this is a twin bed not made for one tall, fully-grown man never mind an additional Sasquatch.

Sam shivers and shakes and hits him with those goddamn puppy eyes, and Dean is so surprised by the expression that he melts.

“Fine,” he sighs, put-upon, “But don’t hog the covers.”

He does, of course. Sam is curled on his side, asleep and wrapped up tight in the blankets when Dean wakes up.

Dean tucks the covers closer to his chin and watches him sleep, speaking softly. “You know, when you were thirteen, you danced around the house like a freakin’ spaz when you found out we both had our own rooms for once. Dad laughed, so you kept it up until you stubbed your toe on the bed frame. The next morning, you were fast asleep next to me. I didn’t say anything when you woke up, just let you think I was still asleep while you slunk out of the room.”

Sam’s eyes slit open; he blinks, then closes his eyes again.

Dean breathes a quiet laugh. “Some things never change, huh, Sam?” He waits for Sam’s breathing to level out before brushing his hand through his hair, then goes downstairs to start breakfast.

Sam looks a little better when he appears an hour later, hair sticking up in all directions, looking for all the world like the little brother Dean remembers.

He clears his throat, because hell no, he is not getting choked up over this, goddamnit.

Dean shakes his head. “You’re lucky I like you so much,” he grumbles, pouring Sam a cup of coffee, intending to follow up with a brilliantly witty comment about blanket stealers.

The thud is distinct, that of a body falling from full height and hitting the floor.

Dean vaults across the room at the sound of Sam choking, clamping his hand down on Sam’s shoulder when his eyes roll up in his head, body convulsing in the throes of a full-blown seizure. He shoves the table out of the way and turns Sam on his side, helpless to do nothing but wait.

Eventually, Sam stops shaking and gasps out a painful breath. Then another, and another. His hand finds Dean’s knee and he clings, nails digging in painfully before his head lolls to the side; his grip lessens as he falls unconscious.

Dean hits speed dial on his cell, unsure who he called or even what he said until Castiel pries the phone from his numb fingers.

“Help me move him,” he tells Dean, lifting Sam off of the floor and onto the couch. He shifts Sam until he lays on his side, head propped up on a folded blanket. Castiel touches a palm to Sam’s forehead - Dean hesitates to use the word - tenderly. He holds his hand there for a moment, frowning when he turns to face Dean.

“The wall between Sam and his memories is breaking.”

“He isn’t poking at the wall, Cas.” Dean throws up his hands. “Hell, he doesn’t remember enough to know whether or not to poke at it.”

“No, but you are.”

The words hit Dean like a blow to the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Still, Castiel goes on. “Every memory you pull from his mind - every past moment, good or bad, creates a crack in an already fragile foundation. The wall is not permanent, Dean. It was never meant to be.”

Dean can’t breathe past the guilt gnawing at his gut. He didn’t realize Sam was coherent enough to understand him most of the time, and the thought that he made things worse rather than helped Sam heal threatens to eat him alive.

Castiel’s eyes soften, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if the angel can read his mind.

“Sam is listening, Dean,” he murmurs, and Dean’s breath catches. “He hears you. He always has.”

* * *

Dean paces. Sam is still sleeping, sprawled out where he and Cas managed to manhandle him onto the couch, and Dean paces because he doesn’t know what else to do.

The only time he felt more helpless was that night out in Cold Oak with Sam’s blood on his hands. Even then, he had a plan, didn’t matter if it meant giving up his soul. Saving Sam took prevalence over everything else. Always has, always will.

He has no course of action now; there’s nothing he can do to fix this, and that, more than anything, scares the shit out of him.

“What am I supposed to do, Sammy?” Dean whispers, hands clenching in his hair.

Sam sleeps on.

The next morning, Dean opens the door for the paper and finds a dog sitting at the bottom of the stairs, brown hair matted from dirt and the rain, ears flopping over big, puppy brown eyes. With the severe lack of sleep, Dean swears he’s hallucinating.

When the dog sees Dean, he perks up, ears lifting and tail wagging.

Dean rubs his eyes, wondering how the hell a dog wandered all the way out here. He points towards the road. “Go home, mutt.”

The dog cocks his head to the side, then opens his mouth, tongue hanging out.

“I can’t keep you,” he says, shrugging his shoulders when the dog makes no move to leave.

Of course, Sam chooses that moment to walk up to the door.

Sam freezes. So does Dean, because the smallest things set Sam off, and his brother still looks like he's been through the wringer, face drawn so the dark circles under his eyes stand out. The dog, however, has no such compunction and bounds up the remaining steps, stopping directly in front of Sam. He sits at Sam’s feet and lets out a soft bark.

Dean takes a step forward, but Sam blinks, then slowly approaches the dog. He holds his breath as Sam crouches down, hands moving indecisively in front of him.

The dog makes the decision for him, burying his head in Sam’s hand. Sam passes his hand over the dog’s head, slowly scratching between his ears. Dean thinks of Flagstaff, of Bones, the look on Sam’s face when he and Dad finally found him and Dad told him to leave the dog behind. Dean doesn’t remind Sam of this, but when Sam looks up, his eyes are begging silently, and Dean wonders if he remembers all on his own.

Dean exhales and rolls his eyes, compelled to at least pretend to be put-out.

“Fine,” he sighs, then points at Sam, “but you’re walking him at ass-o-clock because if he pees on the floor—”

Sam doesn’t respond, but his eyes are wide, hopeful, and more alive than they’ve been in months.

Dean likes the mutt already.

* * *

Of course, Dean is still saddled with the responsibility of dragging the dog ten miles to the nearest vet.

Sam sits on the couch, plucking at the blanket around his shoulders while the dog gnaws on the fringe along the opposite edge.

Dean bites his lip; he hasn’t left Sam completely alone since he woke up in the panic room, but they need food and the dog probably needs a flea bath. He won’t force Sam out into public. Not after yesterday, not knowing how he’s going to respond.

He whistles and the dog jumps to attention, following Dean to the door. Acutely aware of Castiel’s gentle reminder, he says, “Sit tight, Sammy. I’ll be back.”

Sam tracks their movement, watching from the window as they leave.

His brother will be okay. Dean tells himself that over and over, hoping beyond hope that it’s the truth.

The dog jumps into the back as soon as Dean opens the door to the Impala. He drops into the driver’s seat and glances back as the dog settles down with his head on his paws.

Dean sighs. “You slobber all over my seats and you’re out the window, mutt.”

It’s an empty threat; the dog closes his eyes and lets out a quiet, contented sound.

As it turns out, “he” is really a “she.” Dean pays the exorbitant fee for the veterinary visit - or Dean Smith does. The vet walks the dog out of the exam room, fur clean and shining, complete with a brand new collar, and she’s practically preening.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t get used to the royal treatment, princess.”

The vet giggles, handing off the leash with a knowing smile. Even she knows he's lying through his teeth.

* * *

Sam isn’t in the house when they get back.

Dean allows himself a moment of panic when he calls Sam’s name and his brother doesn’t appear. He’s halfway up the stairs when the dog takes off out the open kitchen door, barking up a storm. Dean figures that’s as good a lead as any.

He finds Sam out back, sitting on the woodpile, staring up at the birds circling the trees like they puzzle him. The dog barks once then lays down, rolling on her back in the leaves.

Dean approaches, steps measured and slow so as not to startle him. “Sam?”

Sam’s eyes are wide with wonder when he turns. For the second time that day, Dean feels his throat close up and chokes around the rising urge to cry like a child.

Dean coughs, pointing down at the dog lying on her back at their feet. “So, what are we going to name her? Fluffy?” Dean cringes because no way in hell will he any dog of his be named Fluffy. 

Sam frowns, staring out at the sky. Dean watches Sam’s face, open and awed. He almost smacks himself for the sentimentality of his next suggestion.

“How about Hope?”

Sam doesn’t respond - not exactly. He glances away from the birds for a moment to stare at Dean, and Dean takes that as good of an agreement as any.

“A dog named Hope in the middle of Nowhere,” he scoffs. “There’s a joke in there someplace.”

Sam shivers, crossing his arms and huddling down in his jacket. Dean sighs; he knew the good mood wouldn’t last. “Come inside, Sam. I’ll make you some of your girly tea.”

Hope lies at their feet with her head on Sam’s sneaker, tail thumping steadily against Dean’s boot. Sam glances down at her, then back at the birds, then at Dean, and a smile emerges, slow and shaky but unmistakable.

Dean swallows and smiles back. If his lips shake, that’s no one’s business but his own.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, squeezing Sam's knee, “we can stay out here a little longer.”


End file.
